Whistling Wind
by Kirachu
Summary: Tsuzuki keeps the memories of the people he cares for alive in the most simple of ways.


**Whistling Wind**  
**by Kira** (kirabop@hotmail.com) 

**Author's Notes:** So, Gaki says, "I wonder what instrument Tsuzuki would play." Kira says, "He would play a flute!" and sends pretty flute song from Michael Flatley's Feet of Flames. Gaki says, "Tsuzuki should play the flute and he should play it in this scene thinking these things and those things! Write it!" Kira says, "No, you write it, it's your idea!" Gaki says, "No, you!" 

Repeat for about fifteen minutes before Kira cries, "Fine, fine, fine!" 

Thus, I blame this completely on Gaki. ^^ 

------

In his dreams he remembers a beautiful young woman, who wore a smile as her shield against the world, that steeled her brown eyes in defiance, who kept her cherry-colored lips set in a firm line of her resolve. He remembers the words she said and the things she whispered, the comfort of her soft, gentle voice. He remembers hands worn down by hours of labor that would earn her only barely enough to keep them alive. He remembers those hands, mauled by calluses, lightly wiping away the tears from his face streaked of mud and blood. He remembers her fingers brushing away the long, tangled mess of dark hair, the pressure of her lips against his forehead. He remembers the soft whisper of, _'I will always love you no matter what anyone says.'_

In his dreams, he sees a woman who means more than his own life to him. He sees her smiling at him, her lips moving as she calls out his name. He sees her hands beckoning to him, asking him to come and play. He sees that proud, strong face streaked with tears at night, when she sits alone in her room, and cries for herself and for him. He sees himself, an awkward boy shy of eight years old, kneeling at her feet and asking, _'Sis? What can I do? Sis.'_

In his dreams, he hears the voices of a harsh, heated argument. He hears her voice raise up in defiance. He hears the sound of flesh striking flesh, the sound of the beautiful, defiant, strong woman crumpling to the ground. He hears the sound of the meager kitchen table chairs being shoved across the dirt floor, wailing their protest until falling silent when they strike the wall. He hears the rustle of clothing as the woman is forced to her feet. He hears the second strike and the cry of pain. He hears, _'Please, please don't hurt Asato!'_

In his dreams, he feels the down trodden floor and aging walls marred by blood. He feels the face of death, eyes wide open yet lifeless, mouths expressing terror, an expression frozen in death. He feels his own cheeks and feels blood, but the blood is not his own. He feels his knees crumple the ground beside the unmoving of the beautiful, strong-willed woman. He feels his fingers touching her lifeless face. _'Sis? Open your eyes. It's okay now. They can't hurt you. Sis. Please, sis.'_

He opens his eyes. The dream is gone. He stands alone in a thicket of cherry trees. The wind is warm and caresses his cheeks as it moves around him, carrying with it the fallen white and pink petals of the trees. He feels a petal brush across his lips, and feeling the tickle even after it is gone, he puts his fingers to his lips. 

He holds in his hands a flute, gripped between long, darkened fingers by hours spent in the sun. The flute is long, cream-colored, not like the steel kind he sees students play in their school bands. It was carved by precise, caring hands a long time ago. The name of its maker is still etched into its surface. It, nor the keys, have not been blemished by time. This object means more to him than an item of mere sentimental value. He cares for it as he would a child. 

In his memories, he remembers an old man that lived on the same mud-packed path as he. The old man, an aging widower, was losing his sight in his old age. He was once known as the finest maker of instruments in all of the country. But as he grew older and his sight became less keen, few people sought him out to make their instruments. The old man spent his days sitting outside of his small, plain home, whittling wood and listening to the neighborhood children as they ran up and down the road. 

He remembers running down that road once. Stones were being hurtled at him and the jeering, cruel cries of the children chasing him grew louder as he felt his knees becoming weak. He felt them buckle beneath him and he fell, into the muddy path. A stone scrapped along his arm, its sharp edge opening the flesh there. He remembers covering his head, drawing himself up into a tight ball, and waiting for the beating to come. He remembers the children falling upon him and the first of their kicks digging into his ribs. 

He hears the old man speak. _'Leave that child alone! Go on! Get out of here!'_

He sees the children running away. He remembers drawing himself up, wiping his dirtied face with already dirtied hands. He looks at the man, watching him as he, with pain-staking movements, rises from his chair and cane in hand, with faltering steps comes to stand beside him. He remembers not realizing until the man rests down beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder that he is blind, and yet he persevered over his handicap to be able to do such simple things. 

The old man took him into his home and told him to guide his hands to where he was wounded. He took the hand, lined with age and losing its natural, healthy color, and touching it to his elbow, let him feel where he was bleeding. The old man cleaned the wound and wrapped it with such efficiency that he, a child of six, was awed before he was finished. 

_'Whenever those children are hurting you, you come to me and I'll keep them away.'_

He runs his hands over the flute. His finger brushes across the mouthpiece, and smiling faintly to himself, remembering a distant happy memory, he puts it to his lips. His breath comes out gently across the opening, and the instrument emits a low, soft sound. 

In his memories, he remembers running to the old man when those children would chase him down the street with their rocks and their cruel words. He sits in the home of the old man, hands pressed tightly to his mouth as he gobbles down some treat the old man has granted him. He listens to the man speak, telling him of the way the days were once, long ago, of how he met his wife who had passed away two winters before from age and illness. He listens to the old man tell of how he was the finest of instrument makes across the country, but now, is no more than a simple old man living day to day. 

He hears himself ask the old man to teach him a song. The old man says that he cannot, because he no longer is able to make instruments, and has none left of his own to teach him with. He tells the old man that he thinks he can do it. He can make an instrument even if he is blind. He smiles, filled with sudden determination, and says, _'If you can fix me up and not see me, then you can make an instrument without seeing too.'_

He plays that song now. Even after so many years, the tune comes out perfectly. His fingers move over the keys carelessly. His eyes are closed as he moves his fingers across the flute, as he breaths into the mouthpiece to emit the sound. 

He remembers the day that the old man finished making the flute. He would run to the house every morning, ask him if he had made the instrument, and the old man would shake his head and say no. He would come back the next day, and the day after that, until one morning, the old man presented him with the flute. 

It was beautiful. Cream-colored and smooth to the touch. He remembers taking it into his hands carefully, as though fearing that holding it in any grip but the most gentle of touches would make the instrument shatter in his hands. The old man takes it from him, puts it to his lips, and blows softly on the mouthpiece. A low, shrill sound emits from the simple object, and his eyes lit up in delight. 

He remembers the old man teaching him to play. He feels fingers on his own, guiding him over the keys, soft commands of how he should blow out just lightly, with just the right amount of air, with the just right amount of time. He remembers being frustrated when the only sound he could make come from the beautiful instrument was something that sounded more like the honking of a goose. He hears the old man laugh and tell him, _'Just keep playing, Asato. Just play.'_

He remembers the determination of a silly child and the drive that filled him to be able to play that one tune he heard the old man play so many times. He remembers when that moment finally came, and the joy that filled him in that moment. He can still see himself running down the path, the flute clutched into his hands, bursting into the house and crying, _'Sis! Sis, listen! Listen!'_

He plays for them. He plays for that beautiful, strong woman, with the smile of an angel, the kindness of a saint, that comforted in his moments of need. He plays for the woman that accepted him for who he was and not what he was. He plays for the woman he called sister and loved with the whole of his heart. He plays for her, to remember her, to keep her alive within him. 

He plays for the old man, ancient and feeble, but strong. He plays for a blind man that never saw his strange eyes and thought him a monster. He plays for the old man that accepted him as a lonely child that needed a guiding hand on his shoulder. He plays for the old man that gave him pride in something, that was able to fill him with a feeling of worth he had never felt before. He plays for him, to keep his memory alive within his heart. 

He plays on, the sound of the flute carrying over the cherry trees, rising higher than the sound of the whistling wind. He plays and remembers the faces of those who touched his life. He sees their faces, hears their words, feels them. 

He plays just to remember them at all. 


End file.
